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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669984">Fidelio</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13'>LadyAJ_13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, Edging into the territory of, Episode: s02e04 Neverland, Episode: s04e04 - Masonic Mysteries, If you want to read this as just friendship you probably could, Inspector Morse Era, M/M, POV Outsider, Peter Jakes Returns to Oxford, Pre-Slash, Prison, Sort of - POV Robbie Lewis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:21:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,038</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He swears, one day he’ll have a boss who doesn’t get himself accused of crimes and thrown in jail on the regular, because last time - with those masonic whatsits - had been bad enough, but now it’s happened again?!</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>This time it needs the combined forces of Robbie Lewis and a thirty-years-cowboy Peter Jakes to get him out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse, Robert Lewis &amp; Inspector Morse, Robert Lewis &amp; Peter Jakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fidelio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The title may be somewhat misleading, I’m afraid; neither Robbie nor Jakes dresses up in drag to bust Morse out of prison. Although now that I’ve typed that, I hope someone picks up the challenge. I’ve also played with IM timelines a little; although this is set post-S4, Max Debryn is mentioned as the pathologist.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s like last time, only </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swears, one day he’ll have a boss who doesn’t get himself accused of crimes and thrown in jail on the regular, because last time - with those masonic whatsits - had been bad enough, but now it’s happened again?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only this time, they’ve kept Morse locked up. Not a night in a station cell but actual prison - moved into the population and everything. The evidence points right at him, although the motive is sketchy at best - Morse might like his opera, but killing someone because they complained about him playing it too loud the evening before is a stretch. But he’s locked away all the same, and the other inspectors seem to have washed their hands of it. The other sergeants give him pitying looks in the cafeteria: the one who worked for the murderer, a stain he’ll never live down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes to Superintendent Strange.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strange is not helpful. He says they can only follow the evidence which is - not to put too fine a point on it - bullshit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, it’s not bullshit. It’s what he would do in any other situation, but this is - this is different. This is Morse in jail, no chance of bail, and facing trial. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>murder</span>
  </em>
  <span>. While his old friend sits in his office chair and frowns and suggests Lewis get off home early, because he’s looking a bit ragged. Like he could just eat dinner with his wife or take the kiddies to the park or have a bleeding bath, while Morse rots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does, in the end, go home. Then he visits Morse first thing, but even his badge can’t get him through the door at that hour, and they tell him to come back later, when the prisoners - </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the prisoners - have had their breakfast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heads to Morse’s house. It’s already been checked for evidence and cleared, so he uses his spare key to let himself in. He moves the post, already beginning to pile up on the mat, although most of it looks to be junk. He sets aside a couple of official looking letters in case they’re bills he should arrange to get paid. Then he clears the milk from the fridge. There’s not much else in there; just a wedge of cheese he pockets for Val, and a few forlorn, already wilted vegetables that he dumps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse hadn’t washed up before he left for work, and the sight of his mug growing mould on the countertop makes him stop, stare, and blink hard for a few minutes. He washes it up, dries it, and stows it in the cupboard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nothing left for him to do, but leaving Morse’s house without a plan feels like giving up. It would be saying to the precinct - to the higher ups - that here is, ready to focus on other cases, to put career before loyalty. So he sits at the kitchen table until rain starts hammering at the windows, then does a sweep to check they’re all closed - because the last thing Morse will need when he gets out is a sodden carpet or mouldering wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he gets out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe there’s someone who can help. Someone not at the station now - Morse has been a policeman for a long time, but there must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hasn’t pissed off, someone who might help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t think of anyone. There was McNutt, but of course he’s dead now. Doctor Debryn would, but he’s not a policeman and he’s already carried out the most thorough autopsy ever seen without finding anything substantially useful. He wanders aimlessly through the house. What he needs is some sort of - aha!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs the worn leather book next to the phone, and is relieved to see it’s an address book. Phone book too, with everything written in Morse’s familiar hand. His attention to detail has come through too, because there’s himself - a DS in front of the ‘Robbie Lewis’ and Strange, first name Jim, with numerous crossings out as he rose through the ranks and changed houses and numbers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just needs to find the other coppers, then. Inspectors and above, he admits, will be most useful. He starts at the A’s and works his way through, dog-earing pages as he goes - he can imagine the withering look he’ll receive, but if Morse is free enough to deliver that look in person he doesn’t really care. It’s a pretty thin selection when he’s finished, but he raises the phone receiver and dials in the first possibility.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only after he’s consoled a woman crying into her morning cornflakes that he deduces, in Morse’s system, an asterix means deceased.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes back through the folded pages, unfolding entry after entry, and staring in disbelief as lead after lead evaporates. Then he goes through the book again - less picky. Sergeants will do. There’s no guarantee, after all, that Morse updated their records like he did Strange’s - if they haven’t moved house there’s a fair chance they’re higher up the payroll now. Even if they’re not, he’s getting desperate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An entry under J makes him pause. The ink is old, faded, and that means this man - this Peter Jakes - is one of his best bets for no longer being a sergeant. The number is an odd one with an unfamiliar code, but if he’s out of the immediate area then that also means less chance of him being swayed by any local bigwigs. He lifts the receiver again and dials carefully, listening to it ring for a long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone finally answers, growling into the phone. He pulls the receiver from his ear and stares at it for a second, before collecting himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I, sorry - is this Peter Jakes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t even know who you’re calling at three in the bloody morning? Who is this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three in the? I’m sorry Sir, I didn’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir? God, you’re a copper aren’t you. What the hell do you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“DS Robbie Lewis, Sir. I’m Morse’s sergeant and-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A laugh interrupts him. “Morse’s sergeant? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jeesus.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He drawls the word like some kind of country pastor on the American TV shows Val likes to watch of a Sunday evening, but the rest of his accent is Oxford through and through. “Bet that’s a walk in the park. How long?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About... four years, give or take.” Too long, really. He should be moving up - he can’t support his family on a sergeant’s wages forever. But he can’t move up by stepping on the back that’s got him to where he is now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must be a goddamn saint, DS Robbie Lewis.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s had the same thought himself once or twice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s he done now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hesitates, not quite sure of how to put it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometime today Sergeant, preferably before I hang up on you for wasting my time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s accused of murder. He’s been arrested and put in prison to await trial. I need… I needed someone to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause as he clutches the receiver a shade too hard; just a slightly crackling line and something that might be a release of breath. Maybe that was too stark. Before he called, he should have worked out exactly what help he needs, so he could be calm, rational, and lay out a plan. Instead he’s dumped the whole sorry mess at someone else’s feet. Maybe he doesn’t deserve a promotion after all. Until he can handle something like this on his own, he’s not worthy of the mantle of Inspector.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Again? Shit, he has the worst luck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Worse than last time. Last time was a night in a holding cell-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Last time was three months at her majesty’s pleasure and a whole lot of hard graft on my part only for him to go swanning off with some rich snobs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They just might be talking about different ‘last time’s’. But that means this is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>third </span>
  </em>
  <span>time Morse has been accused of murder, and surely that’s not possible?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean, a night in a holding cell?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Last year, with the masons. We got him out. What do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>mean, rich snobs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been his sergeant for four years, you’ve seen him accused of murder, and he still didn’t tell you about…” Jakes trails off. “Right. Shit, okay it’s - God, I need to go milk some cows in about half an hour but I’ll sort it. I’ll get on a plane. Go see him if you can, make sure he’s not - not whatever. He still living in that old crack den?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“32 Wood Farm road?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, uh - yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me your number, I’ll call when I’m in the country.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie reels it off, and then he’s listening to the dial tone and staring in mute shock at the wall. He’s not even sure where this Peter Jakes </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>- somewhere it’s three in the morning instead of nine - but he’s apparently dropping his life, which somehow includes milking cows, to come rescue Morse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The man who can barely hold a friendship unless it’s the pathologist, and that seems to be mainly built on quotes and pints. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he was nicer whenever Jakes knew him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For lack of a better plan, he does as he’s told and goes to see Morse. He takes along a pile of books, but he’s not allowed to hand them over, so instead they look at each other a bit awkwardly as Robbie tries to make out if Morse is actually okay. He’s not sure if he’s glad of the visit or not, but at least he’s got a chance to reassure him that not everyone has given up. He says he’s found help, that they’ll get him out, and if he still looks oddly pale by the time Robbie gets up to leave - well, maybe it’s just the lighting in here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes arrives on Robbie’s doorstep at ten the next morning. He’s in corduroys and plaids; head to toe dust colours and crumpled from the plane. He hands over Morse’s spare key and says he’ll meet him at the prison after lunch - time enough for a quick kip and shower, because he knows he’d be pretty much useless straight off a plane, and the furthest he’s ever gone is Spain. He’s still not sure where Peter Jakes has come from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pops into the office for the rest of the morning, and makes sure to be seen around, typing up reports and clearing up paperwork and generally being helpful without getting tied up in anything. At lunch he disappears, wolfs a quick sandwich in his car and drives over to Bullingdon prison. The car park is pretty much empty; it’s not visitor day, and it makes the very familiar red car taking up one of the spaces stick out like a sore thumb. Like a leopard who changed his spots, Jakes now wears a suit with a narrow tie and his greying hair slicked back as he leans against Morse’s jaguar. As Robbie walks up, he stamps out his cigarette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Show time,” says Robbie, gesturing ahead of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They go through all the usual checks - at least as a policeman he’s not held to the visiting hours, but they’re both given a thorough pat down and made to sign the book. Then they’re shown to a room, and - there is Morse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse,” he says, taking one of the chairs quickly even though it's barely twenty four hours since he was last here. “How are you, are they-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wotcha.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes slides into the chair next to him and - he’s actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>grinning</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To be fair, the look on Morse’s face is quite something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you said you’d found help, Lewis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes is no policeman. He’s been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>cowboy </span>
  </em>
  <span>for years - and not even a crook, but a man who actually herds large beasts. He wouldn’t know a crime if it bit him on the ear!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As opposed to you, Morse, who apparently knows crime a little too well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse scowls, and Robbie finds his head bobbing back across the table like he’s watching a tennis match. Cowboy, really? For years? Jakes flicks his lighter and holds the flame to the end of a new cigarette. After his first inhale he blows the smoke out in a thin stream, right at Morse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me one of those,” he says snappily, gesturing at the pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes looks at it, back at Morse, and then grins again. “One of these? You’re not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>smoker</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you Morse?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re currency in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually he is a smoker. But he quit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he thought Jakes looked gleeful before, he positively lights up at that. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Well.” He blows another lungful of smoke across the table, and Robbie leans back out of the cloud. “How about that. All those grimaces and winces and sodding lectures.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jakes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How the mighty have-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you fly across an entire ocean for this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a fair question; Robbie has been wondering the same thing. But then Jakes lunges forward, until he’s hunched over the table. He slides the cigarette packet across like he’s forgotten it, and it’s just in the way, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid when Morse slowly reaches for it and tucks it in his pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Morse. I flew across an ocean to save your arse. Again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a tense silence. Jakes and Morse have locked eyes like they’re in a staring contest, and the first one to back down will have to run the Oxford half marathon in the altogether. It’s making even Robbie’s eyes water. Eventually, slowly, Jakes leans back in his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Managed it last time, and I hear from this one that he managed it as well. So you could say we’ve got previous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse’s gaze flicks across to study Robbie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So. The beginning. Who is she, how do you know her, why are you being fitted up. Go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Edith Lodge. My next door neighbour. I assume someone doesn't like me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes glares at Morse. He unearths a little book from an inside pocket, and flips it open to take notes. “Timeline?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse sighs. “I have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>over </span>
  </em>
  <span>all this-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you will go over it again. Timeline.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can see when Morse gives in. There’s a hint of an old dynamic here, and he wonders if Jakes was ever Morse’s superior. It’s hard to imagine him cowing to anyone - he doesn’t even bother with Strange - but Jakes talks like he’s used to having his orders followed, even here, in the grey walls of Bullingdon prison. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Edith knocked on my door on Thursday evening. It was just gone ten, because the news had started and that’s why she’d come - said my music was too loud for her to hear it properly. I may have suggested turning the television up, or investing in some hearing aids.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’d complained about the music before, occasionally. Usually… we weren’t friends, but we were friendly. I’d do the odd bit of work for her, she’d keep an eye out for suspicious characters; she knew I tended to attract trouble. But we’d just wrapped a bad case-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Levinson one,” Robbie interjects. “Three dead girls.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should have been only two, except I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay on track, Morse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wasn’t in the best of moods,” he says delicately. “Perhaps snappier than normal. She left, and I went back to the sofa. I turned the music down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes raises an eyebrow. “From level 23 to level 22, I bet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I went to bed around half 12, got up in the morning about seven and left by eight. Worked a full day - paperwork, finishing off everything, then went straight from work to a classic car show in Reading. I’d been invited to show the Jaguar, and stayed in a hotel for convenience. When I returned home on Sunday morning I was arrested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Friday evening, after Morse had gone to Reading and I’d gone home,” Robbie adds, “a Dr Luglon calls in worried about his neighbour. Uniform go check and find her dead in her bathroom, strangled with the shower cord. First I hear of it is Morse, calling me from the station, but by that time Debryn had confirmed the time of death as from 3 and 5am on Friday morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes hums as he flicks over what he’s scribbled down and turns back to Morse. “Dr Luglon lives on her other side, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Across the street.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And they say your motive is the argument about music.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After which she went home, and you sat in your living room and stewed about it for between five and seven hours before deciding to act, breaking in-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No sign of forced entry, she let her attacker in. Another reason it was Morse, apparently.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, so after your terrible fight she felt she had to offer hospitality despite it being the small hours. You’re riled up enough to kill despite the long stretch of time in which you’ve been sitting on your hands, and you go to her house to do just that, but don’t bother to bring anything that can be used as a weapon. You somehow end up in her bathroom, strangle her, trot back over to your house, get ready for work, spend the entire day in the lion’s den with no discernible distress and then take yourself off on a jolly for the weekend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Put like that, it sounds ridiculous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes nods. “Or sociopathic, but anyone who watched you cry over your favourite opera singer hanging herself wouldn’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Jakes challenges. “Too soon? It was 1965. What else have they got?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“DNA at the scene,” says Robbie. “Hair on the floor of the bathroom, fingerprints both there and on the stair rail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said, I do a bit of work for her now and then. I’d changed a washer on her tap the previous Sunday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything on the shower itself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes’ interrogation continues - everything covered by the investigators first time round, but now Robbie’s hearing it first hand rather than reading it neatly typed. Something about typed words makes everything look official, he’s always thought. It can make a lie look more believable just by being put down in that way. Jakes continues to take scrawled notes in the little book, and both his questions and Morse’s answers are littered with jibes and asides and references that leave Robbie somewhat adrift. He always knew Morse had a past - of course he did, and his relationship with Debryn and Strange shed glimmers of light on it - but it’s somehow different with this strange cowboy-cop who uses hints of an American accent to make Morse smile even in a prison-issued jumpsuit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The questions slow eventually, and the room grows quiet. It must be nearing dinner time, and sure enough, there’s a knock on the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Done, gentleman?” asks the guard. Jakes just stares at Morse, who stares back, so it’s up to Robbie to agree awkwardly and start the process of moving them all out. He averts his eyes as the guard pulls out a pair of handcuffs and snaps them about Morse’s wrists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes is quiet when they leave through the unobtrusive reception area and high security door. His fingers dart to an inside pocket then away again as they walk across an expanse of concrete towards the cars, like he’s craving a cigarette and forgot he gave them all to Morse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir?” Robbie ventures, when it seems like they might be stuck in this limbo silence forever. It’s almost enough to make him wish he smoked, lungs be damned, just to have something to offer the other man. Who’s looking more and more shell-shocked the further they get from the metal doors.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Back to the station,” Jakes grunts, turning the key in the lock of Morse’s jaguar with more force than strictly necessary. “Files.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a sensible suggestion, but something about the way Jakes said it makes Robbie think they’re not headed to the station for files after all. Still, he makes sure to drive cautiously and keep the red Jag in his rear-view mirror, and waves him off into Morse’s usual spot when they reach Castle Gate. He swings into a spare space of his own, and takes a deep breath before pulling the key from the ignition. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll need to see everything,” Jakes says, as if their conversation was never interrupted. Robbie may be taller, but Jakes has long legs and walks quickly despite not knowing the layout. “Everything they think they have on him, I want it all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Last time they modified the computer records.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then paper copies of whatever you have, typewritten reports, photographs, everything. I need to know what we’re dealing with.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie nods, and leads the way to his desk. He’s been keeping everything he can locked in his top drawer, away from prying eyes - although it feels a little like bolting the stable door when the horse is already over the horizon. He finds the key in his trouser pocket and liberates the file. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to collect anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s all here, Sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could probably get in trouble for handing over police documents to an outsider, but beyond the odd curious look, suspicion seems to slide off Jakes. He fits here, and people barely give him a second glance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coffee?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right over there, Sir.” A pause. “I’ll just go make some, shall I? Milk, sugar?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes nods to both, and Robbie wanders over to the tea station and sets the kettle to boil. He’s got a funny feeling Jakes is trying to get rid of him though, and when he sees him charming PC Stacy and disappearing out the door he knows he’s right. He abandons the coffee mugs and follows - along the corridor, up the stairs, round the corner, and - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Superintendent Strange’s office. Of course, Morse and Strange go way back, so if Jakes and Morse do too, then it’s not unreasonable to assume that Jakes knows Strange. But he’d ditched Robbie, like this wasn’t a friendly catch-up. He’s enough of a police officer to want to know whatever people would rather he didn’t, so as soon as the door swings shut he edges forward until he’s leaning against the wall opposite. He doesn’t need to get any closer. The participants are very graciously ensuring their argument is loud enough to bleed through the door barely muffled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“- on earth are you doing here? How long has it-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s in prison again? You remember what happened last time-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes, really, you came all this way and not even a -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-oh, right, that’s it, you got a promotion out of it-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not fair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was also thirty years ago. But he’s back there now and it’s on </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> watch, and-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And all the evidence is against him! I can’t release him because he’s my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha! Like you’re being much of a friend-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jakes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you know about it? You don’t know the case, you don’t know him any more, and anyway, he was never squeaky clean-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cleaner than you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jakes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You are a civilian, and it is quite within my rights to have you removed from the premises, or arrested if you resist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s like that, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t go poking around. We’ve done this one properly, Jakes, you think I wouldn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>check</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He’s not being fitted up. He did it. Witnesses. Motive. DNA evidence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That can all be twisted one way or the other! I don’t believe it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. You don’t get a say.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door flies open, and Robbie locks eyes with Jakes. He doesn’t seem surprised to find him there, just jerks his head to the side and stalks off, long legs eating up the corridor until he’s almost out of sight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lewis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m guessing I have you to thank for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Send him back to bloody Wyoming and get on with your cases. Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>current</span>
  </em>
  <span> cases. Or you’ll find yourself facing consequences.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds Jakes again at his desk. He’s finished making the coffee himself, and perches on the edge of the wood, legs stretched out in front of him and hands curled around one of the mugs. It’s the one Robbie always uses for Morse, but there’s no way he can know that. He stares deeply into it while another - Robbie’s usual - steams at his elbow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir?” he tries hesitantly. He can’t help the title, although he’s now realised Jakes never ascended above sergeant. But it comes out, and Jakes doesn’t seem to find it odd. “We should…” go somewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Grab that.” Jakes stands, downing the last of his coffee and gesturing at the file. “New base of operations. You’re not giving up on me, are you sergeant?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, he’s not giving up. Not on Morse. He grabs the file, slipping it under his jacket, and walks slightly ahead of Jakes out of the building, like he’s escorting him. He slides into the passenger seat of Morse’s Jag - too obvious to leave at the station - and waits in silence as Jakes peels out of the car park and onto Oxford streets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long have you been gone?” he asks eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me you weren’t listening at that door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thirty years.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seems too confident in this environment for that; the way he’d slipped into an old skin at the station, the easy way he maneuvers a pristine classic car through city streets that by rights should be buried in memory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you grow up here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes flicks the indicator, pulls smoothly through the lights and then eases the Jaguar to a stop on the street parking on St Giles’. Morse would never park here, for fear of scrapes or bangs from an errant cyclist. Jakes just feeds money into the machine and returns with a sticker for the window. They’re almost right outside the door of the Eagle and Child, but Jakes ignores it, looking both ways and darting across the traffic to the Lamb and Flag instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Had my leaving do here,” he says, stopping briefly outside the door, and turning to face the street. “Said goodbye to Morse right - there.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie looks. It’s just a patch of pavement, dappled in sunlight; one he’s trod time and again on the way in and out of this Oxford institution. Thirty years ago it was a site of parting. He wonders if Morse’s preference for the Trout and the Turf has anything to do with avoiding old memories. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He wouldn’t come in. I’d been given a bloody medal and he wouldn’t give me even half a chance to lord it over him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like Morse, Sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, he hasn’t changed that much. But Strange thinks he’s a murderer.” He shakes his head, as if pulled from a trance, wrenched from a brighter past into the relentless present. He pushes through the door and gestures to the barman, and barely a minute later they’re ensconced in a corner table with a pint apiece.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie pulls out the file and opens it. There’s a photo of Morse with the victim; a row from the day before. God knows who took it - an anonymous tip to the station, their disagreement immortalised in colour film. That’s suspicious enough, who goes round taking photos of people’s doorsteps on a Thursday evening? There are transcripts, too, of interviews, and statements from people who swear blind Morse is a violent man. He can’t find the connection, the reason they could all be lying, all be turned by some shadowy outside force.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We know he didn’t,” he replies eventually, but the case against them covers their water-stained table, and Morse hadn’t been able to tell them anything they hadn’t already heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Strange</span>
  </em>
  <span> though,” sighs Jakes. He pulls the photograph towards him then slaps it down again. “Morse kept in touch for the first few years, after I left.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Surprised me, we weren’t great friends.” He picks at a spare beer mat, peeling the layers until they fan out, rising towards the ceiling. “Always reckoned he was closer to Strange than me, certainly closer to Thursday. He liked Trewlove more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie nods, although the names - he can only assume Thursday is a person, the phrasing doesn’t make sense otherwise - mean nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was this one constable; I never met him, after my time. He came to a sticky end just as the old regional offices were being shut up and what you’ve got now was opened. Coppers disbanded, moved around. Morse was out at Witney for a while. Bright in Traffic, of all places, which I’d have liked to see. There was some TV campaign, with a - a goose? Or maybe a turkey, I don’t know. Some big bird. I was so annoyed at not getting Oxford TV in Wyoming. ‘Course now, I could’ve got Morse to tape it and send it over, but that wasn’t an option then.” He’s smiling suddenly, and Robbie thinks of all this written out on paper and shipped across an ocean. Wyoming, Strange had said. How foreign it all must have seemed, because he’s pretty sure Peter Jakes is an Oxford boy now. How comforting, perhaps, to hear the details and day to day of home when dropped somewhere completely unknown. And Morse, of all people, took it upon himself to provide that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The smile dies. “Strange did some kind of higher up bureaucracy thing. But he - he wanted to find out what happened to the kid. They’d been mates, I think. He wanted justice. The rest of them - they were scattered, you know? But he kept bringing them back together all for this one kid. Wouldn't let it go. And they did, the old crowd came together and found his killer and cut off the corruption that led to it. Was a dirty copper, a sergeant who wore his rank like a cover and pulled strings behind it until he had half the city dancing to his tune.” He stops, and swigs his beer, until half the glass is drained away. He coughs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Strange</span>
  </em>
  <span> did that. For some kid he knew half a year. And now he gives up. On </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says it like that; </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the emphasis. As if giving up on Morse is worse than giving up on anything else - worse than giving up on yourself, or the concept of justice, or the belief that tomorrow the sun will rise again. Like Morse is some kind of constant. Robbie knows he has a touch of that himself, but it’s disconcerting to see it in someone else. It’s unswerving loyalty, and it might have been three decades, but it bleeds out of Jakes like it’s endless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes works like a man possessed. There’s a fervour in it, sure - the same he half recognises in himself, the need to get Morse out as quickly as they can and have the world right on its axis again. He’s not sure why it’s so important for Jakes, usually half a world away, but it must seep from that lake of loyalty. Maybe Morse saved his life once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But underneath the fervour there’s something else, too. Something he might call joy, except that’s an odd emotion to ascribe to digging through transcripts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was killed Friday morning, found Friday evening and Morse was arrested first thing Sunday, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His movements in Reading confirmed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The hotel confirms he stayed there, and he checked in at six so he must have gone straight from clocking off. He was seen at the car show, and his car never left it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But he could’ve?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are witnesses placing him there, but you’d only need a space of a couple of hours to hop on a train and get to Oxford and back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No one ever contacted him about the case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, we were off duty. Might have been thought he was too close, anyway, with him knowing the victim.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes hums thoughtfully, still peering at the page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know how he likes his puzzles.” Robbie nods. “Well I hope he’s instilled an appreciation in you, because the two of us are going to have to think like him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes taps his index finger on the page. It’s the report from a neighbour, the one who overheard the row between Morse and Miss Edith Lodge and first called in suspicion after not seeing her for over a day. “Opera. It’s always about the bloody opera. Did you interview this man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr Luglon? Not personally, I’m not technically meant to be working this case at all. But I listened to the recording after.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s pretty straightforward. He recounts the argument, which to be honest, does sound like one Morse would have. I think we can believe that happened, given Morse admits it. Then says he was suspicious after not seeing Miss Lodge and called the police. He said her and Morse had had disagreements before, although not on that night’s scale. He never saw her body.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And there’s DNA?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his maths is correct, Jakes was last in the police force around 1967. DNA didn’t come into crime solving until the mid-80s, and it’s still not that widespread today. For a cowboy, he’s well-versed in modern day policing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bits. Some of Morse’s hair in the bathroom, as I said. And that’s where her body was found. But he’d been round to hers several times to fix things. Could’ve been left any time, especially if she wasn’t that concerned about cleaning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes shakes his head. “Can’t imagine Morse on the old DIY.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A lifetime of classic cars, Sir, says he’s picked a few things up. And Miss Lodge was rather pretty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes rolls his eyes. “Of course she was. What about Dr Luglon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any of his DNA? He was a neighbour too, close enough to be concerned...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And these,” Jakes fans out a sheaf of papers with printouts of other witnesses, people who've seen Morse shout and are willing to believe he’d go further. A couple who say he already has. “They’re lying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course they’re lying. But there’s no connection between them. They don’t know Edith Lodge. Some of them don’t even live in the area-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh… some don’t live in the area?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then how did they get a statement taken?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They came to us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was there some kind of appeal? Anyone who’d got a grudge against Inspector E. Morse, please step forward?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he realises. There had been no appeal. “Just local newspapers, although nothing about Morse until after he’d been charged and moved to Bullingdon. Strange kept it out of the papers as long as he could.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oxford Mail?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” Jakes tears a page out of his notebook and scribbles down a name; </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dorothea Frazil</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Find me her number, quickly. Her and Morse go way back, she’ll help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, it’s gone nine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes checks his watch, double takes, and then checks again on the wall clock on the other side of the pub. “She won’t mind me calling late. If you get it to me, I’ll talk to her tonight and we can arrange a meeting tomorrow. I suppose after that I should let you go home. You’ve got kids?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie nods, surprised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Caught sight of a football goal round the side of your house. Me too. Two girls. Grown up now though.” He sighs, looking far away for a moment. “Sorry - go home, I’ll find Frazil. You call it a night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure, Sir?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes nods, and pulls the various papers and documents towards himself. “Get.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next morning Jakes picks him up in the Jag. He thinks briefly of his desk - the jobs that may be landing on it unseen, the Inspector he’ll have been reassigned to who will find the station decidedly Lewis-free - and slips into the passenger side. Jakes drives them to the tune of Radio 3, and whether he’s just not reprogrammed the stereo or if his music taste leans the same way Morse’s does - well, either way, it’s a familiar feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They drive out of Oxford, heading towards Witney, and sweep down quiet country lanes. The rumble of the car and quiet classical soundtrack is soothing, to the point where Lewis has to refocus his gaze on the road, because if he stares at passing fields too much longer he’ll nod off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Jakes slows and pulls up outside a pretty Cotswold stone cottage in the village of Eynsham. The door is bright blue, with a lion-shaped knocker. He taps it three times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doop opens to reveal an older woman, maybe in her late sixties. Her hair is entirely white, but she wears a carefully neat combination of skirt and blouse, and there’s a fierce glint of intelligence in her eyes. This must be Dorothea Frazil. Jakes had said her and Morse were old friends, although he’s never mentioned her - but from first impressions she seems just the kind of woman Morse would find himself orbiting. One pretty enough, but too clever to fall for his words, who would instead keep him in his place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t realised Morse had so many friends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I heard,” Dorothea says, as they head through to the sitting room and Jakes explains why they’ve come. Her home is comfortable and well put together. She offers tea, and waves them towards a pair of squashy armchairs while she perches on a sofa. “Don’t believe a word of it, of course. I spoke to the current editor of the Mail but he had to run the story. It's a fact that Morse has been arrested for murderer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even if-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down Jakes,” she reprimands, before he can get more than two words out. “I didn’t mean it that way, and if that’s the way you’re going to be I’ll deal exclusively with Lewis here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes seems strangely on edge in her space, and he understands when her focus shifts to him. “I just hope Morse trained you properly,” she says quietly, with a quirk of her lips which does nothing to put him at ease. “You didn’t come here about my lack of control over the local press, though,” she adds, tone suddenly business like again. She folds her hands in her lap. “What do you want to know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything.” Jakes pulls out the file, and Lewis groans inwardly as the documents are spread out once more, in front of another civilian. And this time one with links to the press. “You know Oxford, what about this doesn't add up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean, apart from Morse being the murderer?” She smiles, and pulls a few papers nearer. She flicks through, landing on the photograph of Morse and Lodge arguing for almost a minute, before moving on. “Edith Lodge. No links to anyone unsavoury, no one who would wish her harm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“None at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then it’s not about her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was thinking that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which means it’s about Morse.” She taps her finger on the transcript of Dr Luglon’s phone call that first alerted them to Lodge. “Dr Luglon. I don’t know that name, and I used to have a pretty good knowledge of Oxford’s people to know. New, is he? Young?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About your age, Dorothea.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what age would that be, sergeant?” she asks, before breezing past it. “It’s not ringing any bells, though of course I don’t know everyone. What kind of doctor? Definitely physical? Or… mental, perhaps? A psychiatrist?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems an odd question to him, but Jakes’ head snaps up. “No. No, you don’t think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luglon, first name Sam…” she murmurs, eyes worried, as she passes over the transcript. “I’ve proofed a fair few crosswords in my day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lewis!” Jakes barks. “You got a picture of Dr Luglon anywhere?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s not-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got a computer,” Dorothea says, springing to her feet like a woman half her age. “Perhaps we’ll find something on the web.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leads them through to a small study. It’s overflowing with books and notebooks, and stacks of newspapers three feet high totter in each corner. The computer is nestled in the middle of all of it, and looks rather incongruous amongst the mess; a futuristic interloper. It seems to take an age for it to boot up, and then for the twanging strains of the dial up connection to fade away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s only now understanding Morse’s usual impatience with him, when he gets going on a computer. There’s nothing more frustrating than not being in the driver’s seat, although at least Dorothea seems like she knows what she’s doing as taps Dr Sam Luglon into the search engine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The screen blinks, and a page of results show. Dorothea taps on one near the top, and a page opens. She scrolls and - a picture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a man. White, late sixties, and nothing unusual about him at all. Dorothea and Jakes both lean forwards, until they’re bare inches from the screen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Could be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could be what?” he snaps. “Who is this Dr Luglon? He’s just a witness, the team checked into him already. He’s a respected doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dorothea loads another page, and gasps. This photo is older, Dr Luglon younger, and Jakes’ knuckles turn white where they grasp the back of Dorothea’s chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s him,” he says. “Well, at least Strange will believe us now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Who</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mason Gull,” Dorothea says, and for the first time she sounds somewhat shaken. “He’s a very clever man. Killed three last time round, all styled on famous operas, although his lifetime total’s higher. I put him on to Morse myself, with a silly little story about a singing detective for the arts section.” She smiles, brittle and wan. “Morse got him in the end of course-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glances at Jakes, but he just shrugs. “Yeah, we wouldn’t have got there without him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-but not before getting stabbed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stabbed?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Slashed,” Jakes corrects. “Ruined one of my best shirts, he did, bleeding through it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But this time he’s chosen to imprison Morse. Less of the playing this time, I imagine. Or Morse would have seen the net closing.” She shakes her head, and stands. “To be expected, perhaps, if he’s been in prison all this time, that he’d want his captor to know what that felt like. And that he wouldn’t underestimate him again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pushes through them both, and they trail her back into the living room. Sun still streams through the windows, and her squashy armchairs and sofa and coffee table are all exactly as they were, down to the bowl of humbugs and murray mints in the middle. Funny how ten minutes can make the world tilt until you feel it should look different. “We can get him out now,” he grins. “Dorothea-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You go to Strange first,” she instructs. “But Jakes, you’ll have to catch him. Or-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll turn,” he agrees. “We’ll play it safe, Frazil, keep it quiet and get him before he knows we’re on to him. We won’t let anything happen to Morse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hits him, weakly, on the shoulder. “Or you, sergeant. Or you, Lewis. Morse wouldn't be happy to see either of you on Debryn’s slab, and neither would I.” She escorts them to the door, and they both have to duck the low beam to emerge onto the street. “Don’t be a stranger for another thirty years, Jakes. You were never my favourite, but you weren’t that bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes takes it to Strange. Strange tries to throw Jakes out, but then he mentions Gull and Strange turns the colour of scrambled egg with the yolks left out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves them to it, now he’s sure Jakes won’t be out on his ear. He trusts Jakes will find him when there’s something to do, and until then it’s vital they appear as normal as possible. Jakes had said, as they drove back to town, how Gull might have spies anywhere. He turned witnesses, got them to swear lies were truths. There could be someone in the station. Trust no one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He picks up the notes left on his desk instead; odd jobs, mainly, it seems he hasn’t yet been assigned a new inspector and is instead picking up the slack for the rest of the team. It would rankle usually, but it suits him now, the anonymity, the freedom to do what he wants when he wants it, not worrying about supervision or an important case calling him away. He transcribes a few taped statements into the database, then finds a note asking for some files from storage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The records room is barely used these days - anything new is entered into the computers, so it’s a historical archive only, and getting less useful by the day. He flicks the lights on, pleased to see he’s alone, and riffles through the ‘G’s until he unearths the Grove file requested. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s right here. It feels like a sign. He flicks a bit further back, just to check, and - Gull, Mason. It’s here. The file is dusty in his hands, more than three decades almost undisturbed. He handles the paper sheafs like a historical document he’s wary of tearing. He doesn’t want to leave any trace, but he has to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tosca, he reads, and half-remembers plot points and melodies from long exposure to Morse. Rooftops. Bodleian library. Acid, flame, bricked up in his own basement. Officer injured. Light duties, transferred. Conviction, double life sentence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps in the corridor make him jump, and he fumbles the papers back into the tan folder. It slips into its hanging file, and he eases the drawer shut, scurrying sideways to the T’s. His heart thumps, strong enough to show in the rhythmic shiver of his jumper. Tanner, he remembers, scrabbling over the letters; t-a-f, t-a-g, t-a-l. Get the Tanner file, then drop both off with Sergeant Nicholson.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The footsteps carry on, but it isn’t until three hours later - when he packs up his briefcase for the day and heads down the station steps - that he lets himself relax.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a few days for their own net to close. They can’t risk anything suspicious, so they don't visit Morse again. The temptation to try and reassure him would be too great. Instead, Robbie goes back to work - normal work, boring work - and Jakes disappears into Morse’s house. Strange is being elusive, giving Robbie only the briefest hints and tasks to carry out, and when he and Jakes meet for lunch on the third day he doesn’t feel like he has much news to pass on. Just that they might be close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes, it seems, has been tackling Morse’s garden. “No wonder all the neighbours hate him. It’s a bloody jungle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie nods, distracted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He told me when he bought that house, must have been… God, I don’t know. Late sixties. If he’s taken a pair of secateurs to the garden in all that time, I’ll eat my hat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hums.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it’s a ten gallon one, so that’d take some doing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pause, during which he realises, when he goes to drink, that he’s already finished his orange juice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, and tilts his empty glass. “I’m going to get another, do you-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s cut off by the pub phone ringing. There’s no reason why it should stop him in his tracks, but it does - he freezes like someone’s cocked a gun to the nape of his neck. It’s shrill, insistent, and he watches in an almost daze as the bartender answers, as Jakes leans in to look at him more closely, as -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sergeant Lewis? Call for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>- as the world speeds up again, and his legs assemble themselves underneath to propel him to the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lewis speaking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“We got him, Lewis. We got Gull, it’s definitely him, now we’ll round up the witnesses but...”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strange keeps talking, but the meaning fades away as his attention wanders. They got him. If they got Gull, that means Morse is innocent. That means -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we go get him out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m faxing the discharge papers. Thought you might like to pick him up? And, uh - well, Jakes didn’t leave me a hotel number-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone is lifted clean out of his grasp and he spins to find Jakes practically bowling him over. “What? Lewis said about getting him- uh huh. Yep. Shit. Thank you.” He hangs up and throws the phone and a twenty pound note at the barman, before spinning and grabbing his jacket from their table. His pint is barely touched, their lunch ordered but not yet delivered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Off we go,” Jakes grins, and sweeps the two of them out. He can’t really begrudge the loss of his coronation chicken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse hadn’t been ready when they pulled up in the now-familiar prison car park, and they chose to wait just outside so Jakes could smoke. He’d been fidgety and spiky during the drive over, restless energy bleeding out in jerky movements and sharp words. Robbie absorbed both, numbed by the relief bubbling out of him, and the ache as his tension-filled neck eased for the first time in weeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse had to be rounded up from yard time, then escorted to his cell to collect his belongings. There had been paperwork for him to sign, and other belongings to return, and all in all it has felt something like an age before the metal door swings open to reveal his mentor; tired, washed out, but free. At last. Jakes drops his latest cigarette; a sad butt stamped out to join the pair already under his polished brogues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse,” he says, as Robbie takes the paper bag of personal items.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something softer about Jakes now, like the excess energy has drained away. He twitches at Morse’s collar until it lays flat instead, and walks close enough to brush their arms on every other step. He’d find it odd, this change of character from the snippy, antagonistic friendship in the prison’s interview room, and the driven detective from the days following the case. This is more Jakes from the garden, but somehow even looser than that, kinder - but then Morse seems to be losing some of the hauntedness he carried on his first free steps. His shoulders are easing, his frown is smoothing. Jakes, it seems, is working.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or maybe it’s just the distance from the foreboding concrete walls of Bullingdon prison. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Morse’s car, all three of them pause - Robbie for someone to unlock the doors, Morse because Jakes is holding the keys. Jakes eyes Morse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice car you’ve got.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better than the trucks you drive these days, I’m sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me drive?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You drove it here, didn’t you? Lewis doesn’t have the wherewithal to take my car as his own while I’m indisposed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He respects you too much.” Jakes flips the locks and swings himself into the driver’s seat. Robbie rolls his eyes as he opens the back door, settling himself and Morse’s bags in the cramped back. They both wait for Morse to either give in or body wrestle Jakes from the steering wheel. He’d like to be joking, but he’s not sure he is. “Lucky that’s never been my problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Respecting me?” Morse grumbles, finally lowering himself into the passenger side and clipping his belt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep. Morning, noon and night. No respect at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure if Morse’s weird noise is borne from humour or affront, but he settles against the headrest without a comeback.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can get a quick twenty minutes if you want,” Jakes says softly. “Traffic will take at least that long.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes drives slowly, carefully, as Morse dozes. They weave through the usual Oxford rush and eventually park on the outskirts of the city centre. Jakes nudges Morse to wake him up, and they leave the car behind to walk the rest of the way on sunny streets. By unspoken agreement they seem to be heading to the pub - and maybe it’s the promise of a cold beer, or maybe the sunshine is just invigorating - but it feels like a moment nothing can darken. He did it. He got Morse out, and come Monday he can go back to the strange mix of respect and resentment for standing in his way. As things should be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pavement isn’t wide enough for three, so he hangs back and lets Morse and Jakes go ahead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why’d you come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why’d you think?” Jakes elbows Morse as he walks, and to Robbie’s surprise, Morse just skips out of his way and smiles. “‘Sides, I’m not the one scared of planes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not scared of planes. And you’re scared of Oxford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes is rolling his eyes, if the tilt of his head is anything to go by. “I’m not scared of Oxford, I just got out.” He releases smoke in a thin stream and cackles when Morse steals his cigarette, lighting himself a new one. They walk in silence, then Jakes turns to Morse, suddenly serious. “Don’t you think three times is enough of a warning sign? You could get out too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, it’s in my bones, Oxford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit. You're just stuck in your ways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could get out,” he repeats, so quietly Robbie finds himself straining to hear, much as he hadn’t wanted to eavesdrop in the first place. So much for good intentions. “Come out with me, one plane ride and that’s it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, but Lewis-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would be fine without you. He did well on this Morse. Really well. Stuck to his guns against everyone else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He called someone who left the police in 1967.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I hadn’t picked up he would have cracked it eventually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’ll always pick up?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes swears, and slides the heel of the hand holding his cigarette back over his head. “Yeah. But I’d rather not have to haul you out of jail a third time. Or a fourth. Whatever, it’s too often.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They duck down the thin alleyway to the Turf, and the conversation dies in the switch to single file. The pub is busy but not full when Morse opens the door, and the barman already has his hand on a pint glass when they reach him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On me,” Jakes says, sliding money across the bar. “Three pints of whatever ale’s on tap. And three packets of crisps. What?” he asks at Morse’s side look. “I got all this UK currency out, I’ve gotta use it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not just going back straight away, Sir?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s got you calling him Sir? I had no idea you were so well trained, Lewis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets Morse’s comment slide as they move to a table. He’s well practiced at it, and if ever there’s a reason to cut someone some slack it’s false imprisonment. Besides, he’s a bit distracted by the fact that Jakes seems about to pack up and fly home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I can get a flight. But they’re not usually full.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But…” he has no follow up, and they both turn to him with bemused looks at the way he trails off. But you’re together, he wants to say. For the first time in three decades. Jakes, you dropped everything to fly halfway round the world and pull Morse from the fire, and Morse, you haven’t looked this human since well before all this started, like being around Jakes is some kind of time machine that winds the years back. Not carefree, never, but you look </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you’re definitely not drunk because we only just got here, and no one’s offering to have sex with you, and the music is top 40 - so it’s got to be Jakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure what it is. It might be old friends, but he doesn't think he looks like that the odd time he meets up with an old schoolmate when back visiting his mam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’ve been away a while,” he finishes finally. “Why not see the sights?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes has seen the sights of Oxford, Lewis, he grew up here. And they haven’t added anything new since 1403.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“London then. You could do with a holiday, Morse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trying to get rid of me already?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s farming you off on me, Morse-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Farming us off on each other perhaps-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Getting a bit big for his boots.” Jakes’ eyes twinkle, and he takes a slurp of beer. “Guess I could hang around for a few days. Not London though. Been a while since I saw the Cherwell, I suppose. And you said you were stationed in Witney, so-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Years ago-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-maybe you can give me the tour. Only ever drove through it before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s not much to see.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie cracks. “I heard Witney’s lovely, Sir. Never been myself. But he’s right, isn’t he Morse?” He delivers a swift kick to Morse’s shin, keeping his expression blank when the man jumps, hisses, and glares at him. “You’ll know it inside out. And the new bits you can discover together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He buries his expression in his pint. It’s a lovely pint. And not just because it’s giving him something to do that </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>stare at his governor and the old friend who dropped everything for him, suddenly looking at each other furtively like they never even </span>
  <em>
    <span>realised. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, yes, I suppose I could show you Witney.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robbie takes another big slurp of beer, only partly to avert his gaze from the soft, hopeful look on Jakes’ face. The other reason is to get rid of it, because he’s beginning to think he’d rather not be sat at this table, veering wildly into a third wheel situation he has somehow accidentally organised. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Good. I’ve been - well, when I got here it was straight into coming to see you, out at the prison - I mean, the hotels have all -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not just stolen your car, he’s living in your house,” Robbie blurts. “And apparently sorting out your garden for you.” Another big gulp, just the right side of too much, and the glass is empty of all but half an inch of heady bubbles. Discretion is the better part of valour, he decides, and that means close enough - having missed lunch, the beer’s already going to his head. He places it firmly back on the table. “Sir, I’m very glad you’re out, I’ll tell Strange you’ll be back Monday. Sir, it was nice to meet you, safe trip home whenever that might be.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He carefully avoids thinking about when that might be, and what might happen in between. They might just be friends. Maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now I’ve got to get going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lewis,” Morse groans. “It’s your round-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stay at the Turf, for more drinks and his steady presence diffusing something that might just - or might not - be sparking into being. Or home. Safe, comforting Val, who he’s not seen for more than a brief peck on his way in and out of the house in a week. The kids, the sofa, a night of telly and a home-cooked meal. The everyday he misses so much when work runs long and disaster strikes and he has to go without.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse and Jakes. If they can’t - if they can’t face it, tonight, with everything so new and the smell of prison laundry soap still caught in Morse’s sleeves, he could stay. Jakes isn’t leaving straight away, they could ease into whatever this is, find it among the leafy trees of Witney instead of the shadowed depths of an old pub.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He catches Jakes’ eye and double takes. Oh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got to get back to Val,” he decides quickly, relaxing when Jakes’ glare lessens. “Bye!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scarpers, but pauses just outside, blinking in the sunshine and breathing deep the early evening air. He supposes he already keeps quiet about Morse’s lunchtime drinking, his bad driving, and his habit of making eyes - and sometimes a bit more - at the female suspects. And Jakes - he likes Jakes. Must be something a bit screwed up about him if he’s as gone on Morse as that look suggested, but otherwise he seems a decent chap. He can keep quiet about this too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all, what’s one more thing to add to the list?</span>
</p>
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